Let it Mean Something
by 9mm Meg
Summary: The vehicular manslaughter charge has been wiped from his record, but Alfred can't get over what he's done. His last-ditch effort at closure is an attempt to get to know the man he never meant to kill.  USUK / LJ kink meme de-anon / serious angst
1. Part 1

He was expecting worse than this, honestly.

Maybe it's the bright sunlight holding back memories of streetlights in the middle of night, or the summer heat rather than autumn chill that had been there before, but whatever it is, it's keeping his forecasted mental breakdown in check.

He isn't sure if it's okay to be thankful for that, because… maybe he deserves it.

The police station is quiet, keyboards tapping away in the background and a laugh coming from behind a closed door somewhere. Not much in the way of mass murders or even coffee shop tip jar robberies going on today, he supposes. It was quiet the last time he was here… that is, until he'd started sobbing halfway through his statement.

_I didn't—I couldn't—he was just—_

_"Please, let it mean something…"_

_I couldn't stop—_

Everyone had been so understanding, so kind. His record was so clean; he'd hardly been fined for the traffic violation (approximately 7 miles over the speed limit). There'd been a few hours of community service here and there to take care of the other _little issue,_and now his record is gleaming again, just like his hands after he'd spent twenty minutes scrubbing the blood from them as soon as they'd pointed him to the restroom. They'd helpfully replaced his stained button-down with a logo-bearing t-shirt as well, and he didn't ask what they did with his own shirt.

It didn't seem right… It didn't seem fair.

He hadn't wanted to go jail, but he felt he deserved worse than he'd gotten. He'd fully expected that black spot to stay there forever, but they'd expunged it just as the lawyer he hadn't wanted had predicted. He was speeding a bit, yes, but—_he_—had been jaywalking, so there'd been no serious finger pointing of a legal fashion in either direction.

_"Alfred,"_ his father had begun, calm and collected as usual. _"You don't want to get into more trouble than you need. Just let me take care of this. Trust me, it might not be negligent homicide, but vehicular manslaughter isn't the best thing to see on someone's record."_

"Can I help you?"

The receptionist is looking up at him now, and he hopes desperately that he hasn't been standing here as long as it feels like he has. Not wanting to keep her waiting any longer (and questioning his sanity) (not that she shouldn't), he quickly attempts to swallow away the lump in his throat.

He is unsuccessful, so he attempts to speak around it.

"I, um… I have sort of a strange request."

* * *

><p>He's still sitting at his small kitchen table, staring at the phone in one hand and the long, awkwardly-formatted number scribbled on a hot pink sticky note in the other. His backside is numb by this point, he vaguely realizes, and checks the time.<p>

It's been six hours since he left the station.

Alfred lets out a ragged breath and tilts back until his chair is against the wall. The police station had been too easy, so it makes sense that this is too hard.

What time is it over there anyway? He isn't sure what the difference is, but the phone's world clock function is helpful enou—9:48 pm.

Too late. He'll have to wait.

He swears and lets all four legs of his chair thud against the linoleum. It'll just be one more day, but still… He's been meaning to do this for a while, and for a while, he wasn't even sure if it's allowed. But he'd finally gotten the guts to ask, and here he's sat, too scared to make the call, afraid of what he'll hear.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. He'll call tomorrow, and he'll deal with whatever he gets.

* * *

><p>Tomorrow turns into today, and before Alfred can convince himself to call, it's turned into the day before yesterday.<p>

But right now there's a gut-wrenching digital purring coming from the phone pressed to his ear hard enough to hurt, and he stuffs his other hand between the cushions of the couch to keep it still as he waits. The damn thing has already betrayed him once today: He'd had the number punched in, ready to go, when his shaking sent his thumb a little too close to the _Call _button when he was nowhere near ready for it.

But he's dealing with whatever he gets, like he told himself he would, and that's just how it's going to b—

_"Hello. … Hello?"_

He fights off the urge to hang up immediately and manages to convince his voice that it still exists.

"Um, hi. Is this—" his mind blanks for a terrifying moment—the name the name, the stupid name! "—James Kirkland?"

_"Speaking. And who are you?" _

He stumbles over the accent for a moment before he realizes what he's been asked. He knew there would be tough questions, but he hasn't really anticipated that this one would be as difficult to answer as it is.

"Well, I'm sure you probably won't want to talk to me, but… My name is Alfred Jones. I… I'm—"

_"You're the one that killed Arthur."_


	2. Part 2

**A/N:** First of all, crazy fricken huge thank-yous to all the readers and reviewers. It's appreciated like you don't even know.

Secondly, to those of you who've already seen this on the kink meme, thanks for coming back for Round 2! Most of the fic will be the same (aside from fixing little things here and there), but I _do_ plan on playing around with the epilogue a bit, if not actually adding a second one altogether, so be sure to stick around for that.

Thanks for reading! Now have some Part 2…

* * *

><p>Matthew gives him another worried look, and Alfred does his best to plaster on a smile. He should know better, though (this is Matthew—come on), so it comes as no surprise when his twin's frown deepens.<p>

Best head off the impending lecture.

"Mattie, look," he says, giving up on the smile and gesturing helplessly. "What do you expect me to do? I can't just—just _deal_ with this. I need some closure or something. _Anything. _I mean… you have no idea what this is like."

Matthew shakes his head. "Of course I don't, Al. But I do know that at some point you're going to have to let this go. It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't his fault either!"

"I never said it was! It was nobody's fault, okay? I've told you this a million times."

"Yeah. Believe me, I know…"

"Well, then listen to me for once in your life. I just don't think going over there is a good idea. I think you should just… just…"

Alfred gives him a frustrated look. "I should just what?"

"You should just let him go. Let him rest. It's over… It's been over for months, and stirring up whatever's left of his memory just seems wrong to me."

The memory does quite enough stirring on its own, he thinks. He rarely has to help it.

_"Please, let it mean something…"_

He knows that Matthew is just worried about him, and with good reason. He hasn't been the same, hasn't been himself since—then—but he's trying, damnit, and just letting time do its all-wounds-healing thing or whatever hasn't done anything for him so far. He's thought long and hard about this, and right now, it seems like the best option.

He has no reply for his brother. But he knows that nothing Matthew can say to him will change his mind about what he _needs _to do, so he doesn't bother coming up with a response.

And because he's Matthew, he understands, and closes the door softly behind him when he leaves.

* * *

><p>James Kirkland had not been pleasant.<p>

It's clear that he doesn't share Matthew's point of view when it comes to who is at fault in the situation, and the man had had no qualms about letting Alfred know that when he'd called.

The conversation had been brief and one-sided.

And deserved, Alfred feels.

However, not thirty minutes after he'd been verbally thrashed and hung up on, his phone had buzzed again, showing another foreign number, but different. He'd already been traumatized enough and felt a bit numb by that point, so he'd answered with less hesitation, thinking that this couldn't be much worse.

The voice on the other end had been much calmer, much more polite, and just as difficult to understand.

Rhys Kirkland hadn't blamed Alfred. He'd even gone so far as to assure him that, of the four of them, James was the only one who resented him for what had happened to their brother. He had been understanding, and that was more than Alfred had hoped for when he'd decided to contact them.

He had not, however, offered forgiveness. Only an address across town.

Alfred is standing in front of the townhouse now, wondering if Matthew had been right about not coming. He considers sending his brother a text to let him know where he is, in case of nervous meltdown and a need of emergency evacuation, but he shakes his head and slides his phone back into his pocket before he ever gets it all the way out.

"Hello handsome!"

The voice startles him, and he spots an elderly woman brushing soil off her hands, kneeling in the flowerbed at the front of the building. The pattern of her muumuu is bright enough that she'd blended in with the foliage.

Alfred makes a show of looking around and behind himself before turning back and pointing at his chest questioningly, and the woman smiles, mostly toothless.

"Yes, you," she chuckles. "And don't act like you don't know it either. You here to rent my top floor?"

He's a bit confused, until he sees the _FOR RENT _sign taped to the inside of a window directly above him.

The reason for its current state of availability hits him low in the gut, and he takes a deep breath.

Rhys had told him. He'd known what to expect before he'd ever gotten here, but it doesn't make it any less real for him now that he's staring up at the dead man's apartment.

"No… actually I'm not," he says, tearing his eyes away from the empty windows and offering the woman a hand up out of the dirt. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about… well…"

He suddenly realizes that he's never once said the name, and now, he can't seem to get it out.

Luckily, somehow, she understands.

"About Arthur. Of course. Come inside."


	3. Part 3

**A/N: **Thanks so much to everyone still following, and especially to the reviewers!

* * *

><p>Adelita Jameson, or Miss Addie, as she lets Alfred know that she prefers, is rummaging through a cardboard box perched on top of her cluttered kitchen table as her houseguest takes in his surroundings and a long drink of sweet tea, sitting in a rickety lawn chair. It seems that her window AC unit has decided to give up the fight, leaving Alfred's glasses slipping down his sweat-slicked nose, so he grabs an old church bulletin off the countertop next to him and starts to fan himself. He's already explained who he is… and what he's done.

He's grateful for the way her eyes had only briefly darkened at him upon hearing it.

She'd offered him a look around the second floor to begin with, which he'd hesitantly accepted, but he'd met nothing but an empty apartment, rooms cleared out months ago and prepared for a new tenant. So they'd meandered back downstairs, and she'd gone digging through a closet and returned with the box.

"Here we go!" Miss Addie proclaims suddenly, and produces a worn leather book with nothing printed on the outside. She holds it tight to her chest and looks him straight in the eye. "You want to know about Arthur, right, honey?"

He nods.

"Well, I can't help you much with that. I can tell you what I thought of him, and so can anyone else that knew him. But if you really want to _know _Arthur, you've got to go straight to the source."

This doesn't make much sense, but before he can tell her so, she sets the book in his lap—then holds his hand back when he reaches to open it.

She answers his puzzled look, "I want you to fully appreciate what you're getting here. Arthur was always so private… I expect that comes with having four brothers—I would know, being the sixth of twelve children—but people don't lock up just any old junk. They lock up treasure, and that's exactly what he was. He could be the sweetest thing when he wanted, but more often than not, he hid inside his grumpy old shell, which is unfortunately what you'll hear the most about when you start asking people about him."

Alfred begins to realize what the book in his lap is, and it must show on his face, because Miss Addie heads him off quickly.

"Now don't you think for a minute that you're not gonna take this," she says, pointing a finger in his face. "I think if anybody deserves to know, it's you. I think _you _need to understand more than anyone what you've taken away from us. It might be harsh, but it's the truth, and you know it."

It _is_ the truth, and he does know it.

It doesn't, however, change the fact that he's contemplating how much Miss Addie's opinion of him would change for the worse should he become violently ill all over her kitchen floor.

Before he leaves, she slips the book into a paper bag, along with a stack of cookies and a photograph that he can't manage to get a good look at before it disappears inside the sack.

* * *

><p>The cookies are pretty good the first time around.<p>

The second… not so much.

When Alfred pulls out the picture and takes a long, hard look at it, he has to duck into an alley and empty the contents of his stomach into a half-full trashcan, holding the bag and photo out of harm's way.

_"Please, let it mean something…"_

At the time, he hadn't been able to tell. The streetlights had been that weird shade of greeny-yellow, and everything had been washed in a pale, sickly hue… including the small, dark puddle pooling around his shoes and under the form he'd clung to so desperately.

But the photograph is clear, and _his_ eyes are green.

Bright, bright green.

* * *

><p>Matthew says nothing when Alfred comes home, and Alfred says nothing about him being in his apartment. He gave him a key, after all. It affords Matthew certain privileges, like opening doors and sitting on couches and waiting for his twin to come home so he can be smothered and cried all over while keeping his mouth completely shut, thank you.<p>

… which Matthew does, because he's Matthew.


	4. Part 4

**A/N: **Continuing thank you's to everyone reading and reviewing~

With Part 4 we're reaching the mid-way point and (finally) a bit of Arthur... Enjoy!

(Also, because FFnet likes to rape my formatting, the bits in first-person and italics are from Arthur's journal. Hope that clears things up.)

* * *

><p>It takes him a few months, but Alfred finally works up the courage to actually open the book.<p>

The picture now sits in a simple frame on his bedside table (it's not creepy—give him a break, Mattie), and he's grown accustomed to seeing it. It looks like Miss Addie had had to resort to a stealthy, covert operation to take it: The subject isn't looking directly at the camera, just off to the side… a smudge of dirt on his cheek and an enormous red rose in his hand. It's obviously outdoors, in the same flowerbed he'd met the old lady, and once he'd been able to look at it without getting sick, he'd remembered her mentioning something about the help she'd gotten with her flowers all the time.

Before, when he'd first decided that getting to know the man could be a beneficial endeavor, he'd made a mental list of all the things he knew about him:

1) He had four brothers still living in the UK, and kept next to no contact with them (it had taken forever for the authorities to track down his next-of-kin afterwards).  
>2) He'd moved to the States three years before… before what happened.<br>3) He was a grumpy sort of person most of the time.  
>4) He had rather large eyebrows (Alfred had mistaken them for more dirt smudges in the photo at first).<br>5) He enjoyed gardening (which Alfred honestly finds to be a bit odd, but whatever).  
>6) He looked very vaguely familiar (but Alfred thinks that this is his mind playing tricks on him after all this time).<p>

It's a start, Alfred thinks, but he's just not sure that any of these things really _mean _anything.

_"Please, let it mean something…"_

So now it's time to keep on dealing with it, and if that means getting to know him, then that's what he'll do.

He sprawls himself on his couch, book in hand.

* * *

><p><em> If I have to listen to one more truncated Southern Baptist sermon, I will let Mrs Jameson know precisely where she can<em>—<em>_

_ I suppose I'm not being fair. She means well, of course. It's just that I'd rather her be concerned with calling about my leaking tap and let me take care of the worrying about my soul.  
><em>

Alfred runs his finger along the top line of the first page of the journal. The letters are pressed deep into the page, and he feels an unfamiliar pull at the corner of his mouth… Unfamiliar, because for once, it isn't forced.

_ I really need to consider finding another flat. It's been a nightmare trying to avoid Mrs Jameson's lectures when stumbling in at three in the morning, especially with those God-awful, creaky steps.  
><em>

He thinks he's understanding the _grumpy old shell_ part. The proverbial heart of gold, however, is yet to be seen, and he's two months' worth of entries into the journal.

_ Time to start using this stupid thing for more than a sounding board of complaints. It'll be a proper diary, all full of foolish fuzzy feelings—_

And alliterations, Alfred thinks and chuckles to himself.

_ —and that sort of nonsense. Lord knows I need to let it off somehow._

_ Suppose I'll start with yesterday…_

* * *

><p>Another month in, and Alfred is being introduced to a decidedly small circle of family, coworkers, and friends.<p>

_ After our parents were gone, the five of us seemed to fall apart. I've only spoken to James once since I moved to America, and it was accidental, as he'd answered the phone when I called to let Rhys know I was settled. It seems like he'd handled it the worst, and Rhys says he's only harsh with me because he misses me as well. I'm not decided on that one._

_ Rhys is the reasonable one, obviously. I speak to him every now and then, though not as much as I probably should._

_ Ciaran's never had much time for me, so I make sure to return the favour._

_ Peter… Lord, Peter. He's a cheeky little bastard, and I'll leave it at that._

_ … Dysfunctional is an understatement, I think._

There are also brief synopses of Miss Addie (he goes easier on her than Alfred expects, and there's even a bit of fondness hidden in there somewhere), a Spanish 'twat,' and an albino German 'wanker,' but their descriptions are almost sweet in comparison to the two-page tirade on one Francis Bonnefoy, Professional Frenchman.

_ … and then, after all that, the pervert has the audacity to say, 'Well, mon ami, why don't you just let me know in the morning?' with his stupid little Frenchie laugh._

_ I'll admit that from time to time, I've been a bit harsh with him, but the frog had that Accident and Emergency visit coming to him._

Alfred is still chuckling to himself when his door opens and Matthew enters, Key of Privilege swinging around his finger.

"First of all," his twin says, appraising the scene before him (a few empty chip bags have nested in the floor next to the couch, along with an empty soda can or four, and there are crumbs all down Alfred's front). "You, Alfred, are _reading_."

"It happens."

"Rarely."

"But it happens." Alfred gives him a challenging look from over the top of the book, then shifts his focus back to the page in front of him.

After a few minutes of idle chat and plans for next weekend, Matthew stands to leave, and Alfred pretends not to notice the way his brother smiles at no one in particular as he shuts the door, and he smiles into the journal himself.


	5. Part 5

**A/N: **As usual, big thank-you's to you all! Your reviews brighten my day every time~

We've only got two more parts and then an epilogue or two to go...

* * *

><p>Alfred stops under a wooden sign hanging out over the sidewalk on a dimly-lit street, and a quick glance into the ever-present leather-bound journal confirms that he's at the right place.<p>

The author of said journal had made good on his promise of foolish fuzzy feeling sharing, and Alfred is building an ever-stronger mental image of him. Most of the diary is narrative, _Today I did this and that_ sort of stuff, but there are occasional entries filled with deep ponderings on all variety of things. Alfred loves these… They give him a much more complex and infinitely better look into how the man's mind worked. (Admittedly, half the time they just confuse him, but he enjoys it all the same.)

Sometimes, specific places are mentioned in the diary. When this happens, Alfred gets curious, and recently, he's taken to modeling his weekends after the ones described in the journal. Of course, he doesn't have an odd assortment of European weirdoes dragging him around, but Matthew comes close enough sometimes (when he's not insinuating that what Alfred's doing is very much unhealthy) (seriously, though—Canadians), and his own friends aren't exactly normal themselves.

But tonight it's just him on his own, and he makes his way into a rather English-looking pub. Not particularly crowded, but according to the journal, every pub in the area has been tried and tested, and this one rings truest.

He's followed the handwritten instructions to several of the other pubs in town, into nightclubs and theatres and even a weird, non-franchise coffee shop complete with poetry reading. There have been used bookstores and small, grungy venues where bands had to play behind chain-link fencing to avoid empty beer bottles and worse tossed their way, and art museums Alfred didn't even realize were nestled into the city here and there.

Everywhere he goes is another taste of the man. He enjoys most of it, questions some of it, and there are bits here and there that he absolutely hates, but it seems like he's always craving more. And now, can almost see the object of his study sitting across from him in the booth, savoring a sip of some fancy, expensive Scotch whisky, the name of which Alfred can't pronounce.

There's an ache growing somewhere in his chest. He's felt it now and then since he started reading the journal and making these little excursions, and every time it happens, it's a little bit worse. It's not necessarily _bad_… It's just there.

Like Arthur isn't.

Before, Alfred had avoided his name like the plague, but lately it's been coming to him almost naturally. He'd even used it in conversation with Matthew the week before, prompting an odd look from his twin (which he'd ignored).

It's time for him to order something, so he consults the journal in conjunction with the menu. As an afterthought, he decides he'll try that Scotch.

He absently looks across the booth and opens his mouth to ask Arthur how to say the name, and then he remembers that the seat is empty, and Arthur is dead.

The ache is suddenly ten times worse.

* * *

><p>One day, Alfred realizes that he's standing at the edge of some sort of metaphorical precipice. He's not quite sure what that even means (the idea of it—he's pretty sure he knows what the word <em>precipice<em> means), but it just sounds _right_ to him, and he knows that one way or another, something is going to change.

He's slowed down with the journal, taking his time in reading it… relishing every new entry in the timeframe they were originally written. He knows that he's coming close to the end, and he isn't sure what he'll find there, but Monday's snippet is read on Monday, Thursday's isn't read until Thursday, and so on.

He can be patient when he tries. He just doesn't do it very often.

Today is Saturday, though, and his friends have asked him to join them at a club downtown… one he hasn't been to since… well… _then_. Matthew will be there though, so he feels a little more confident about it, and agrees to go.

Before his ride comes to pick him up, he sits down and checks if there's an entry for the third Saturday in August, and so there is…

_Some days I think that Francis isn't all that horrible._

_Other days, I don't drink._

_And if by some miracle, something comes of this… this thing __I've discovered tonight, then it will be one of those rare occurrences when these two sentiments happen to coincide on the same day._

_I let him drag me along with his so-called friends (yet again) to some loud, obnoxious club with some number for a name on the wrong end of downtown._

Alfred pauses. As far as he knows, there's only one loud, obnoxious club with a number for a name on Arthur's least favorite end of the city, and it's where they're headed tonight.

Fitting. He smiles to himself and continues.

_I'd call the entire evening a waste of time, money, and alcohol that could've been better enjoyed at home on my own (with Mrs Jameson locked safely away downstairs) but for one little meaningless… thing…_

_God, I imagine it really was meaningless now that I think on it. Never mind. I'm an idiot sometimes._

_I blame Francis. And the alcohol._

_Mostly Francis._


	6. Part 6

**A/N: **Thanks for all the alerts, faves, and reviews! Love you all~

* * *

><p>Alfred had managed to survive the evening, and even scrapped together a decent time, despite the street corner a block away from the club that had stared him down and threatened to drown him in unpleasant memories. He'd been kept busy enough that he hadn't had time to think on Arthur's unimportant whatever-it-was that he was so into—<p>

Wait, no. It said _meaningless_, not unimportant. Twice.

It's the next day before he starts realizing that there may be a connection.

_"Please, let it mean something…"_

He suddenly feels very strange, and ventures a look into the journal. Sure enough, today's entry is there. It's short, but it's there.

_So… No._

_No, I won't read anything more into this. It's nothing—it doesn't mean anything. It's meaningless. No meaning whatsoever._

_… Francis has invited me out with them again next Friday. I may go._

_(Just to confirm the obvious lack of meaning.)_

There it is again. All this _meaning _stuff…

He doesn't quite know what to make of it, but every time he tries to think about it, the ache is back, and all he can hear are those five quiet words whispered against his ear that he's never understood, but knows are important.

* * *

><p>He looks up the word <em>precipice<em>, just to make sure it means what he thinks it does. It's all about cliff faces and perilous and precarious situations, and it still sounds about right to him.

They're back at the club with the number name at the wrong end of downtown, about a month later, and Alfred understands something more.

There's another entry in the journal for this evening… a long one, and Alfred's bored. He's standing out on the steps of said club, sounds from within loud and obnoxious as Arthur says, waiting for the rest of the group to be ready to leave… So he reads.

He's barely halfway through it before he realizes that he's _not _on the edge of his precipice anymore, and hasn't been for some time…

_Alright. Fine._

_Fine, I'll explain, but only so that once I have it in writing, I can look back and see how utterly…meaningless this whole foolish thing is._

_On the first Saturday we went to the hated club, I was ready to leave a few minutes before Francis's little gang were (well, as soon as we got there, really), so I went outside, hoping to make it obvious (although I'm sure the 'If you don't get me home in the next twenty fucking minutes, frog, I will end you' I added upon standing helped with that)._

_I managed to miss the last step on the way out, but instead of sprawling across the sidewalk and possibly into the street, I was caught and tipped back up on my feet by this… person. He was standing by the door, looking preoccupied and anxious, and had been presumably before my misstep as well, because he went straight back to it after setting me upright._

_But I think what struck me was despite all his obvious concern for whatever it was he was so worried about, he managed to toss me this sort of careless grin and a 'No prob', when I thanked him. It's stupid, I know, but… it's almost as if he'd taken that one moment aside, just for me, just to tell me it was alright, just to smile._

_… Christ, I am such a woman._

_But like I said. Meaningless. No reason to read anything else into that. Of course not._

_… And the fact that he was there the next night and I happened to accidentally bump into him next to the bar (completely by accident, I swear—I didn't even realise it was him at first)… and the fact that he gave me this apologetic smile so similar to the first, with all the sincerity and genuineness… Naturally, that's meaningless, too. He seems the sort to smile like that at everyone. It's just in his nature. It's nothing… meaningful._

_Nor was tonight._

_Nor any other evening in the past month when I may or may not have seen him._

_… Seven times, by the way._

_Not that I'm counting._

There's no more until a month later, but there are only three entries left before Arthur's journal abruptly ends, and Alfred can't fight the tightness in his chest… so he keeps reading.

_Good God, am I smitten. Pity I don't know his name._

_(Pity it's meaningless as well.)_

There's another entry another week later, and he devours it, absently noting how badly his hands are shaking.

_I've realised that I haven't properly described him yet. Young (barely 21, I'll wager), tall, blondish, glasses. Sort of… athletic. Not so much American footballer as… hm. Baseball maybe? Less bulk, more tone. It's hard to tell with all those offensive coloured lights in the club, but his eyes could be blue… ish. The glasses are nice on him, though. I wouldn't mind seeing him without them, but they're nice._

_There. I managed to get through that with no cheesy sunshine-related metaphors._

The very last entry in the journal is another week later, date heartbreakingly familiar and just less than one year ago.

_Heading out with Francis again in a moment. The insufferable bastard seems to have noticed my lack of reluctance in going to a certain club, and I wish he'd just taunt me about it openly rather than keep up all his quiet innuendo. I'm certain he hasn't worked out exactly what's been keeping me interested, but knowing him, it's only a matter of time._

_(It's rather sad that part of me is hoping he will, just so he'll feel the need to 'encourage l'amour' and find some way of getting the two of us together, because I'm not certain that just smiling back will get anything done for me.)_

_(Yes, that's my brilliant plan, by the way. I'm going to smile.)_

_(Pathetic.)_

_And there's the frog now. Expect more meaningless descriptions of meaningless, stupid American smiles from me later._

_Oh, and speaking of… I can't believe I didn't mention this sooner—I heard someone, one of his friends, call him Alfred._

_(I'm having trouble deciding whether or not it fits him.)_

Alfred is not on the edge of his metaphorical precipice. In fact, he's far from it.

He's already falling.

* * *

><p>When Matthew finds him later, Alfred is at the street corner, one block away.<p>

He's sitting on the curb, head between his knees and Arthur's journal on the pavement next to him. Matthew takes a wide path around, probably attempting to get a look at his face before he says anything, but Alfred saves him the trouble and lifts his head.

He's pretty proud of how _together _he's keeping it, and for a moment, Matthew appreciates it as well.

"Very nice, Al," he says with a slight smile, then crouches down to face his twin. "Now quit trying so hard before you sprain something."

Alfred mumbles something about _too late_ and hopes Matthew will catch him when he gives up and falls over. He probably will. He _is_ Matthew, after all.


	7. Part 7

A little less than a year ago, Alfred had been at a certain club at a certain end of downtown.

He'd been bored out of his mind, waiting on a call from his friends to come pick them up, and thinking that being the designated driver was something he was never, _ever _doing again. They'd told him 1:00, and at 1:15 he still hadn't heard from them, so he'd decided to just head their way regardless of whether or not they were ready to go.

On his way out, he'd passed a nice-looking, slightly familiar face… no one he knew, just someone he'd seen around here and there. He'd flashed him a smile, and had been momentarily taken in by the one he'd received in return—the slightest upturn at the corner of the mouth, hardly enough to qualify as a smile, but more than enough to stop Alfred in his tracks—

And then his phone had suddenly buzzed in his pocket, and when he'd looked back up, the blond with his enticing little smirk was gone.

… He could always catch the guy next time, right?

* * *

><p>By the time he'd seen him step out into the road, it was too late.<p>

He'd leapt out of his Jeep, rushing to his side… He hadn't known what to do, and in hindsight, it had really been incredibly stupid of him to move him without knowing how injured he was, but he'd wrapped his arms around him, sitting him up a bit, and whispered frantically, _I'm so sorry, it'll be okay, I'm so sorry, please be okay…_

But green eyes, washed out in the streetlights, had looked up at him, and shaking, thin fingers and reached up and just barely touched his face. All the dying man had managed to say was, _Please, let it mean something_.

And then he was gone.

* * *

><p>Alfred's been saving up for this for quite a while now.<p>

Matthew had warned him against coming, worried about him as usual. But, as usual, he'd ignored his brother.

Instead, he'd called Rhys Kirkland, and asked for another address.

He's standing in some quaint English village with a quaint name, in a cemetery full of headstones bearing the name _KIRKLAND_. It doesn't take long to find the right Arthur—it's been a few years, but his marker is still the newest, and stands out from the rest of them in brightness rather than size.

It takes longer for him to work up the nerve to speak.

In the end, crouching down in front of the headstone makes it easier, because he feels like he doesn't so much have to shout now (not that there's anyone around to hear it). The next challenge is finding the right words, but really… he's never been that concerned with it before, right?

"Hi Arthur," he says quietly, glancing down at the bundle of enormous red and white roses in his hand. "Um, I don't guess you really know me, but I know you. Well, I think I do, anyway."

He pauses, listening to the chilly breeze and trying to decide where he's going with this. There's been so much for so long, but now that he's here, every thought in his head that he needs to say has decided to vacate the premises.

After a moment, he catches a straggler, and starts again.

"I hope you don't mind, but Miss Addie gave me your journal… and… I sort of read it. A few times, actually. And bookmarked certain sections. And I may have cried on it a little bit, but whatever. If I know you well enough, I know you'd get all mad about it at first, but then you'd probably get sappy on me, and that would be worth the fuss."

It's coming a bit more easily to him now, and he leans down to rest his forehead against the cold, damp stone.

"Arthur," he whispers. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry I never noticed you… I'm sorry for doing anything that might've kept you from approaching me. I'm sorry for ruining whatever chance we had, and I'm pretty sure it was a damn good chance, knowing what I know about the two of us.

"I might not have gotten to know you the right way, but I know you well enough to know that I miss you, even though I never got to meet you. And more importantly, I know you well enough to know that I love you."

He presses his lips to the stone for the briefest moment, then lays the roses on the ground in front of it.

"So I just wanted to let you know, Arthur… This thing, whatever it is… it's not meaningless. Not at all.

"In fact… it means everything to me."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thanks so much for all the alerts, faves, and reviews!

If you're thinking this looks like the end, you're halfway right. This is technically the last part of this fic, but there's still an epilogue to go. And for all those that have already read this on the kink meme, the epilogue posted here is going to be quite different. It's not complete yet, but I'll have it up ASAP.


	8. Epilogue 1

"You snore loud enough to wake the dead, you know."

Thin fingers pinch his nose closed, and Alfred gives a dramatic performance of faux-strangulation, thrashing a little and knocking his pillow off the bed and into the floor, and then ends it rather unfittingly in a wide, blissful grin after he's smacked upside the head.

"You know you love me anyway," he says, finally opening his eyes to find green ones looking back behind blond lashes… and a sly little half-smile that he absolutely adores.

"I daresay I do."

A moment passes before lips are pressed against his, and Alfred lets his eyes slide shut again, but not before breathing a quiet _Arthur _into the kiss. He lifts one hand to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, and the other drifts down his back, reveling in the touch.

God, how he loves this.

The beat of Arthur's heart is solid against his chest, just slightly out-of-sync with his own, and he loves the way that it speeds up a bit when he pulls Arthur closer (he can never be close enough) and lets out a little hum of contentment against his mouth.

Alfred isn't sure if it lasts for minutes or hours, and honestly, he doesn't really care about anything besides kissing Arthur, touching Arthur, _feeling _Arthur at the moment, much less the passage of time. But eventually, Arthur pulls away and buries his face in Alfred's neck, breathing deeply.

After a moment, Arthur speaks, fingers tracing over Alfred's skin, sliding across a collarbone and leaving a trail of goosebumps. "I want to make something clear," he says, and Alfred gives him a _hm_ to let him know he's listening. "Under no circumstances are you to do anything remotely resembling rushing on after me, Alfred. I absolutely forbid it."

This makes zero sense, but wisely fearing the physical and verbal assault that would surely come should he let Arthur know that he's lost his mind, Alfred says nothing, and puts on an expression of mild bemusement (probably safest) when Arthur lifts his head to look at him again.

"But just so you know…" Arthur pauses, kisses him again softly, then lets his perfect little smile slide into place, making Alfred's breath catch. "So you know, I'll be waiting for you, love."

Alfred frowns, confused, but Arthur presses a finger to his lips to stop his question.

"Now," he whispers, smile turning a bit sad, "you need to wake up."

* * *

><p>Alfred's bed is cold and empty, his arms crossed loosely over his torso and holding onto nothing but air and himself. He knows all this before he ever opens his eyes, but he leaves them closed, wanting to hold onto the dream for as long as he can.<p>

He's dreamed of Arthur exactly four times before now (not including the nightmares that had kept him up the first few months after the accident) (and yes, you'd better believe he's counting), but these dreams have never contained anything more than vague glimpses of him here and there (aside from the one that left him sweaty, panting, and praying that his subconscious hadn't utterly disgraced the man's memory—but good _God_ that sexy little smirk of his).

This had been so different… so real.

He can hear clattering noises coming from the kitchen down the hall (probably his undeservedly gracious host starting on breakfast), and Alfred knows that he really should be getting up and helping out a bit. He's put the Kirklands through quite enough as it is, even though Rhys had flat-out refused to let him find a hotel for this little trip of his, offering his spare bedroom instead.

With a sigh and more than a little reluctance, he sits up, rubs at his eyes, and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table… But he freezes with one foot on the cold wood floor when he sees the shock of red on the other side of the bed.

When Alfred had chosen the bouquet to take to the cemetery the day before, he'd been at a loss about what flowers to include. The girl at the shop had tried to be helpful, asking what exactly he wanted to say with his selection, but he hadn't rightly known himself. As far as he knew, there was no particular bloom that would perfectly convey his feelings, and when she'd inquired further, he'd gotten a bit flustered and just pointed to a bucket of the largest roses he'd ever seen, telling her the red ones and white ones would do. _Love_ and _remembrance_, she'd said. He'd thought that'd done the job decently.

He instantly recognizes the flower resting innocently on the pillow, red bloom enormous and still wet with this morning's dew, and he ignores the way his heart feels like it will break his ribs with the way it's beating so forcefully, thinking instead on which would be a more appropriate reaction: laughing or crying.

After a moment, Alfred decides it doesn't really matter, and does both.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Wow. This sort of took forever. I'm sorry! oTL (I blame writer's block, AnimeFest, alcohol, and... well, more alcohol.)

For those of you coming from the kink meme, you've no doubt noticed that this wasn't how it ended over there. I wasn't entirely happy with it the first time around, and honestly, I've rewritten it about ten times, trying to come up with something I liked. Turns out, just cutting it off makes me feel loads better about the flow, etc.

I _did_ however promise you guys a second epilogue, and it's very close to being complete. Kink-memers will know what I'm talking about when I tell you to expect the original ending, **BUT!** This time, it won't just end there…

It'll be up soon, and hopefully sooner than this one was.

Thanks for reading!


	9. Epilogue 2

**A/N: **Here's the second and last epilogue… Feel free to pick either one you like better, or if you like them both, I suppose I won't stop you from imagining that they're both possible. I like to think of them as alternates, but that's me.

* * *

><p>Alfred watches from his window as they draw closer and closer to the endless grey expanse of the Atlantic, smoke billowing from the engines, knowing perfectly well that it isn't going to be as smooth a landing as the flight crew are making it out to be, giving instructions in disturbingly calm tones.<p>

He braces himself, hoping for the best (but knowing there's no chance), and closes his eyes.

* * *

><p>He isn't sure what he expected to see when he opens them again, but a dimly-lit, graffiti-covered brick wall is close to the bottom of the list, along with the sidewalk below it, the narrow street spanning out from there, and the red <em>NO PARKING<em> stripe painted on the curb below his feet. He turns around curiously and finds more brick behind him, and, a few feet away, a set of steps leading up to a nondescript metal door in the same wall with an unlit neon sign above it that he can't read in the dark.

Weird.

He's a little worried, because he's pretty sure that this is _not_ heaven, and if that's the case, he's not really sure that he's prepared for the consequences.

And he's worried enough that he misses said nondescript metal door opening, the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and barely manages to register the shouted swear word in time to reach out, grab a handful of satin-backed vest, and save whoever-this-graceful-guy-is from faceplanting on the asphalt. He doesn't even look up until he hears the _Thanks for that, mate_, but remembering that it's always best to be polite, he smiles, and says, "No prob."

It clicks almost before the words are out of his mouth.

The sign above the door buzzes and flickers back to life, a bold _1607_ glowing blue above them, and Alfred turns to find messy blond hair, green eyes, two enormous eyebrows, and the most amazing, beautiful, wonderful, _impossible_ sight that Alfred has ever seen in his life or death or whatever the heck is going on with his state of vitality at the moment—but that doesn't matter because _Arthur_ is _here_. Standing right next to him. _Alive_.

Arthur faces back towards the street, ears turning red.

And Alfred stares.

He stares, and he stares, and then he stares a bit more, mind positively reeling. The only coherent thoughts he can manage to pick out of the euphoric mess in his head are just variations on _ArthurArthurArthurohGodArthur_, and after who-knows-how-long, he finally thinks to make sure that he's not actually saying it (thankfully, he's just gaping silently).

He quickly snaps his mouth shut, but he can't bear to look away, not with the man standing there _alive_ and _breathing_ and absolutely _gorgeous_, posture impeccable even while slightly inebriated. The light dusting of freckles over his nose and cheeks fascinates Alfred for a moment, and then he's stuck on those perfect pink lips—

And a sudden flash of green his way has him looking off down the street in the opposite direction, scratching at the back of his head in an attempt to be nonchalant. Close call, but then it's only a matter of moments before he's peeking out the corner of his eye, taking in the white Oxford, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his arms crossed over the pinstriped vest and dark green tie… and dear _lord_ those oh-so-slim-fitting dark jeans… His heart is pounding in his chest, stomach fluttering uncontrollably, and—_shit_, Arthur's looked back at him again.

There's no way he can brush this one off… He's been caught—not just looking but _checking the man out_ for Christ's sake. The way Arthur's staring at him is incredibly unnerving, eyes wide and unbelieving but somehow dangerous, and Alfred panics for a moment (he'd never come out and said it plainly in the journal, but it's quite clear that he'd never been the most peaceable person, even when sober).

But suddenly, inspiration arrives.

Alfred takes a deep breath and hopes to God that after four years, apparently dying, and being tossed into whatever this unbelievable do-over thing is, he's still got that charm he always pretended didn't exist.

And then he smiles.

He doesn't think it through, but this is his sincerest and best smile, slightly apologetic, but confident all the same.

Arthur's face promptly turns several intense shades of red.

"Mon cher! There you are!"

Both of them jump, and Alfred watches in endless amusement as Arthur bristles like a cat, brows furrowing, fists clenching, and then rounds on who he can only assume to be Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert.

"TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH!" he roars (and Alfred tells himself that it's not all that pathetic for him to feel a thrill at the sound of his voice, even if he's shouting, and even if he's doing so at someone else).

Francis (at least, Alfred thinks it's Francis) pauses on the steps a moment, eyes slowly shifting from still-flushed Arthur to Alfred (who immediately feels rather naked), and a smirk begins to spread across his face. Before he can say anything, though, Arthur marches forward, announces, "We're leaving!" and shoves them all in the opposite direction.

Alfred realizes now that he's grinning like an idiot, but more importantly, Arthur is _leaving_.

"Hey! Wait!" he yells, then curses himself when all four of them turn back around, and he's got nothing to say. Arthur's still red (Alfred will never get tired of that, he swears mentally) but looking less murderous, so he just tosses out the first thing to come to mind.

"Uh… See you around?" he says, hopeful. He barely registers the _o-hon-hon!_ and obvious smirks from the other three, focusing instead on the way that Arthur looks like he's going to spontaneously combust, and holds his breath.

It takes a few terrifying seconds, but Arthur finally manages a nod, then immediately retreats, dragging his drinking buddies behind him.

* * *

><p>Too good to be true, he'd thought. Too impossibly good. It was just some crazy, desperate scenario his brain had conjured in his final moments there on the plane, he'd been sure.<p>

He'd barely made it down the street to the parking lot, not at all surprised to find his Jeep waiting, and his keys, wallet, and old cell phone in his pockets. He'd found his brother curled up on his couch once he got home, and Matthew had found Alfred's jaw with his fist after the sudden tackle and hug, as he'd been very much asleep.

Despite being positive that it was only a dream, Alfred wakes up the next morning (on the floor, tangled in his sheets, his twin sprawled across the whole of his bed and snoring), everything as it had been the night before, as it had been more than four years ago.

The only thing out of place is the worn, leather-bound and bookmarked journal on his bedside table.

Alfred lets his head drop back to the floor with a thud, ignoring the pain and the grumble from Matthew up on the bed in favor of letting that old ache in his chest swell into something more, something warm, something hopeful.

He's got places to be tonight, he realizes, and people to (literally) bump into.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2:** So that does it for this fic. Thanks so much to everyone that's followed along, faved, and reviewed. Love to you all, and I hope you enjoyed it~


	10. Announcement!

Dear Reader,

Before you get all excited and then all disappointed, this is not another epilogue. This is not another chapter.

This is better.

This is an Announcement.

Because I am a masochist or something, I'm continuing this AU, picking up after epilogue 2 (and assuming that epilogue 1 didn't happen). The sequel will be posted sometime in the very near future, so if you don't want to miss it, you can either add me to your Author Alert, or watch FFnet for Chapter 1 of **Meant to Be**.

You have only yourselves to blame. ^_^

Love and Huggles,  
>Meg<p>

PS Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this...


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